


heaven is a place made of paper

by youremyqueen



Category: Death Note
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Comment Fic, F/M, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Prompt Fic, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/pseuds/youremyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pen is mightier than the sword and Misa writes in pink ink.</p><p>written for a comment ficathon on lj, prompt was: <i>i'll love you psychopathically / i can't breathe without affection.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven is a place made of paper

The pen is mightier than the sword and Misa writes in pink ink. She dots her i's with hearts. She kills a nineteen-year-old boy for shoplifting and a battered woman for shooting her abusive husband. She hums pop music while she scrolls through the names, waiting for Light to get home.

Tokyo is lit foggy with a misting rain and his clothes are damp when he comes through the door and his hands are soft on her shoulders when he pushes her off of him, fingers going to her cheek, thumb brushing her chin. He's so handsome and tired and dear, still looks like he had when she'd met him - like a statue of God. It's cold in their apartment and she's not wearing much, goosebumps rising on her arms, her calves. His body is warm beneath his suit. He looks so good in a suit.

"How was your day?" she asks, arms going around his neck. Her smile doesn't waver as he unlatches her fingers, removing her grip like it's second-nature.

"Fine."

"I could make you dinner?" She twirls her hair around her finger, feels weightless, like there's nothing in her.

"I ate," he says, taking off his tie and folding it neatly. He's probably lying - he doesn't eat enough, doesn't speak enough, doesn't smile enough. He's very unhappy, she suspects sometimes, in a far off way that doesn't seem particularly relevant to the situation.

"We could make love," Misa says, hands grappling for him again, but he moves so fast that she barely brushes the edge of his jacket.

"No," he says, without inflection, walking toward their bedroom without looking back, "we couldn't."

 

\---

 

It's almost like being in love with her older brother. Misa's never had any siblings, or even cousins - it had just been her and Mom and Dad, until it was just her - but she thinks if she had, they might have treated her the way Light does, looking out for her out of duty rather than affection.

He lets her fuck him sometimes, just takes his clothes off and lies back and says, "Do it, if you're going to. I have an early day tomorrow." 

She'll climb onto him, sink down, nails clawing at his shoulders, face buried in his neck, making high, breathy sounds and trying not to lose her mind. He feels so good, is so good, even though he just lies there, barely reacting, barely paying attention to her. He comes sometimes, simply as a matter of course, but never seems to particularly enjoy it. It's a chore to him, like grocery shopping or taking out the recycling, and afterwards he'll roll over and go to sleep and she'll watch the smooth, golden arch of his back from the other side of the bed.

 

\---

 

"I could kill you, you know," she tells him once. They're having dinner at a new restaurant - five star rated - and the paparazzi have already snapped a few photos and Misa has signed some autographs, and they're just sitting there between the courses, having wine. "I think I could do it."

He doesn't look up, smooths his fingers across the table cloth, absentmindedly drawing patterns. Maybe writing names. "You couldn't," he says. "You'd sooner kill yourself."

Some acquaintance waves to her from across the room and she smiles brightly and waves back, says, "Same thing, isn't it?"

"I don't think so, Misa," he says, sounding bored. "You and I are really nothing alike."

He has a few sips of his wine and no more, doesn't touch the second course. She drinks until her head is blurry and stumbles down the sidewalk with her hand on his arm, feeling dizzy and dead and like everything in the world - besides him, besides God - is very small and meaningless. She throws up on the landing of their apartment. He doesn't hold back her hair.

 

\---

 

He dies and Misa sits in the waiting room of the SPK headquarters, doing a crossword puzzle. It feels strange not to be writing, writing, writing all the time. They'd given her her memories back, maybe to be cruel, but it feels like a kindness because without them she is completely weightless, doesn't understand a single thing. Now she knows. Now she remembers why he'd kept her around as long as he had. Remembers why he hadn't died sooner.

"I think I might kill myself," she says to Matsuda, because he's the only one who will speak to her. The rest of team is quiet and angry and guilty and afraid, maybe, and Near just calls her a 'religious fanatic' and leaves it at that.

"Oh," he says. Then, after a moment of staring at the tiles on the floor, of rubbing his shoe into a scuff mark, he looks up at her. "Don't - don't do that."

Misa looks at him for a while, and it feels like enough, like more than anything Light had ever said to her. "Okay," she says.

No one really knows what to do with her yet. They don't let her go to the funeral and she doesn't ask them to - it doesn't feel real, Light doesn't feel real; like maybe he's just a story that she'd made up. She keeps a diary, writes it in pink ink. She dots her i's with hearts.


End file.
